


The Devil's In The Details

by silverruffian



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, hoodie time hurt!Dean challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 01:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverruffian/pseuds/silverruffian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for hoodie time sick dean prompt #9: Dean meets a soul he tortured down in Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil's In The Details

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story contains strong language, graphic descriptions of violence, torture and general weirdness.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only and not for profit.

Rosalie, Dean thought numbly. It's Rosalie.

She was younger now, barely sixteen from the look of her, but he remembered how her mouth felt and tasted, years ago. She screamed as he worked his knives, panted into his mouth as he kissed her blood slick lips.

Rosalie smiled up at him and Dean couldn't understand why he couldn't step away from her. Time slowed to a crawl around them; the traffic sounds on the street faded away. People on the sidewalk passed by and didn't give either of them a second glance.

Dean felt his lips move, and he wondered what he was going to say: "I'm sorry I tortured you down in hell? So how've you been, otherwise?"

Pathetic.

What came out of his mouth instead was a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

"Missed you, Dean." Rosalie smiled up at him, quiet and serene. "You never call, and you never write."

Dean stared down at the knife in her hand, watched numbly as she pulled the blade all the way out of his side and then pushed it back underneath his skin. The bottom part of his black tee shirt and his jeans were soaked with blood. He couldn't stop shivering in the warm sunlight.

"I put something on the blade," Rosalie murmured. "Good poison. Just enough to relax you. Feels good, doesn't it, baby?"

Dean's knees buckled. The girl leaned into him, held him up; she was stronger than she looked. Dean jerked a little as she pulled the knife out of him and wiped the blade on his jacket sleeve. She closed the jackknife up and slipped it into her jeans pocket.

Rosalie reached up with her free hand and gently patted the side of his jaw as his chin bumped against the top of her shoulder. "Come on, Dean. Time to put on a show for your baby brother."

Heat flooded through Dean's body, loosened his muscles up all over and swept him away on a tidal wave of darkness.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam jerked himself awake. There was no pretense, no playing possum. His body still reacted to the sight of the four men who'd burst through the door of the motel room. They grinned at him, gleeful and black-eyed, and he fought them until something cold touched the side of his neck and everything turned a quiet shade of blue.

Now Sam reared up, lashing out wth his left hand. He couldn't raise his arm.

His right arm didn't work either. He couldn't move his legs. It felt like wood and steel underneath his body. His arms were stretched out to the sides; his legs were strapped together.

"Poor baby," someone crooned softly, and Sam opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Dean.

Dean sat quietly, patiently, in a large wooden chair. He'd been stripped down to the waist, and they'd taken his work boots off as well.

Two of the possessed men from the motel room stood on either side of Dean. They leaned down whispering barely audible words into his ears.

Sam blinked. Dean wore what looked like maroon tribal war paint.

His face was striped with it. A thin line of dark red paint divided his face in half from the middle of his forehead to his chin. Other, shorter curved stripes ran from the corners of his mouth, his eyes, and from his cheeks back to the front of his ears. His bare chest was covered with fine thin lines of maroon paint that swirled and accented the hard toned muscles of his chest and arms. The design covered his shoulders, ran all the way down to his wrists. The long curved lines of the design on his right shoulder masked Castiel's handprint and the anti-possession tattoo on the upper right side of his chest.

Sam saw blood on Dean's right side, lower down, near his side. It was a stab wound; someone apparently smeared this orange gunk over it to stop the bleeding.

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

Dean didn't blink. His beautifully blank stare went through Sam like he wasn't even there.

"He looks amazing, doesn't he? He painted himself using blood and soot sometimes," a female voice whispered into the shell of Sam's left ear. Sam jerked away from the sound, then turned his head just enough to look at her. She stood at his right shoulder. Long, wavy auburn hair, wide hazel eyes set in a heart shaped face. She couldn't have been any more than fifteen, maybe sixteen.

Her eyes went pitch black.

"Look. Look. You don't need Dean." Sam hated the frantic tone in his voice. He could hear the desperation in his voice, and that made the girl smile. "Whatever…whatever this is, whatever you want, you've got me. You've got me. Just let him go, okay?"

"Oh, you should have seen him down under, Sam." She leaned forward, put her chin on Sam's shoulder. "The first time I saw him he really, really took my breath away," she murmured softly. "I mean that literally. He opened up my ribs and pulled my lungs out with his bare hands."

"Who…who the hell are you? What'd you do to him?"

"I'm Rosalie."

Sam blinked at her stupidly. Rosalie pouted.

"He didn't tell you about me? Huh. Well." She straightened up, drew back, and Sam was secretly glad of that. "No real reason why he should. I mean, Dean tortured thousands of souls down in hell." She came around to the other side, where Sam could get a really good look at her. She was a girl, just a young girl, that was all, dressed in blue jeans and a frilly purple shirt and a black hoodie.

Sam ignored her. His throat was so dry it hurt, but he forced the words out anyway. "Dean? Come on, dude, wake up. Dean, you gotta wake up…"

Nothing.

Rosalie's face brightened. "I know why he didn't mention me. I wasn't his first. I was one of many. I came later."

"Later?" Sam twisted his wrists against the wide leather straps. Everywhere he looked just intensified the feeling that they were in a really, really bad place.

All four walls were mirrored, from floor to ceiling.

Sam stared at himself. He was laid out, strapped down onto a rack. There was a small wooden cart over on his right hand side, and the only other thing in the room was the chair Dean sat in.

The light rippled over the mirrored tiles, from floor to ceiling. The colors shifted, from silver to light gold, then deepened to a rose pink.

"The devil's in the details, right?" Rosalie smiled as she stretched her arm out, ran her slim fingers up and down the surface of the nearest wall. Thin streamers of pinkish red light curled around her fingertips. "We spared no expense to bring the right materials topside. We wanted to make this right for the both of you."

The corners of Rosalie's lips curled up in a smile. She reached out, and lazily traced a design with her fingers over the nearest mirror. It was a heart shape that shimmered and flickered in the air before it dissolved away. "Alastair set him up in a mirrored room. Did Dean ever tell you that? No? Well, he did. Hell watched him, Sammy. Your brother put on quite a show nearly twenty hour hours a day, for years. He made Alastair proud. "

"Why are you doing this?" Sam whispered.

Rosalie seemed surprised at the question. "Why? It's all about you, Sam. And Dean, too, of course. He doesn't want to talk about what he did down in Hell, and we think that's a shame. He did wonderful work. Just wonderful. He's ashamed of what he did. Both of you need a little reminder, that's all."

"We? Who's we?" Sam snapped.

"My sponsors. I won't let him hurt you too badly. Not really. They wouldn't want that. But you'll remember, Sam. You will. You'll look at the new scars we'll allow Dean to give you and you won't want to be in the same room with him after this."

"Dean!" Sam called out. "Dean, wake up! Dude, please, wake up -"

Dean didn't even blink.

Rosalie frowned up at the noise Sam was making. "Fine. Have it your way." She walked around to that wooden cart on Sam's other side. He stared helplessly as she picked up something that looked like a wide band of thin brown rubber.

He could still see her in the mirrored wall directly in front of him. Rosalie stood directly behind Sam's head. His eyes widened. "No. No-"

"You're being very very rude, Sam," Rosalie opened the band with her fingers, slipped it down over Sam's hair and forehead. He thrashed back and forth as he realized what it was: a gag. His nostrils flared wildly as she passed it over his nose; whatever this material was smelled rank and sour, like bile.

Sam shook his head from side to side as she lifted his chin and slapped the gag into place. "There now."

Sam glared up at her wordlessly.

"Oh, don't be so judgmental, Sammy. Not everyone down in hell is a sinner. I wasn't." She leaned down, twirled a lock of Sam's bangs around her long, slim middle finger.

"My Dad was in a car accident. Usual stuff. Lonely country road. He swerved to miss this deer in the road and wrapped his truck around a tree. My little brother Tommy was in the car. He was ten years old. Daddy and Tommy died instantly. Rotten luck, huh? It took my mom a little longer. A couple of days later she took an overdose of pills. I lost my whole family in a matter of days."

Rosalie sighed contentedly. "I found the crossroads about a month later."

She carded Sam's thick bangs with her fingers. "I made the deal. I brought them back. I had ten good years with them. I saw my little brother graduate from high school, then go to college, and a couple of nights later the hellhounds came. I was ready to go. I had a debt, and I paid it gladly. And Dean was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes in Hell."

She smiled at Dean fondly. "All I could see was mirrors. And Dean. Painted and wild and gleeful, one image over and over again. The room was so bright and beautiful, just like him. Wasn't what I expected. Not at all. After he pulled my lungs out he took my head off with a hacksaw. Then he propped my head up on the rack and let me watch. I could still see and hear everything that was going on. I could still feel, y'know. I screamed a lot because he was hurting me. He liked that. Said he really liked my mouth." Rosalie slowly ran her tongue over her bottom lip.

Oh, Jesus. Sam closed his eyes. He really didn't want to hear any of this. He didn't want those images of that Dean doing those things stuck inside his head.

"Umm, let's see…the second day, Dean skinned me, opened me up and turned me inside out. He did it slow. He's got really good hands, what my Dad would have called talented. I spent two weeks with him, and he always left my tongue in my head because he wanted to hear me scream. When I told him I made a deal to get my family back, he laughed and said 'I hope it was friggin' worth it, sweetheart.' I told him I thought it was, and he kissed me. Then he took a pair of pliers and pulled out all my teeth."

Sam's stomach turned a slow, greasy flip-flop.

"I've been a good girl since then. I got my mind right. I learned from what he did to me, and later on I climbed off the rack and took his place with the torturers after Dean left. I owe it all to him."

Rosalie shivered as she hugged herself. "Just think of it, Sam. All the tender loving care Dean gave me made me what I am today."

The happy, grateful tone of her voice made Sam's skin crawl.

Rosalie reached out and slapped Sam on the cheek. "Sam? Open your eyes now. I already stabbed Dean once. I'll do it again if you don't open your eyes."

Sam did.

"Good boy. Anyway. After everything healed up, the next day he took my eyes out of my sockets with a melon scoop." Rosalie laughed. "I always did wonder where he got one of those down in Hell."

Sam forced himself to breathe in and out through his nose. The taste of the gag against his lips was heavy and foul.

The two possessed ones straightened up. The one on the right gently patted Dean's right shoulder the way a human would stroke a pet animal. "He's ready."

Rosalie nodded. "Good. Turn him loose."

The demon on the right leaned down and said five words into Dean's ear.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean's heart thumped fast and heavy against his ribs. He could feel each pulse, each beat at his temples, fast and quick and panicky. His hands were slick with blood, but that wasn't the reason he fumbled as he held onto the blade. He hadn't been this clumsy with a knife since he was a kid.

What if I fuck this up?

It was his first day.

First day off the rack, first day working his knives.

What if they put me right back on the rack?

His stomach cramped up horribly. Dean leaned against the side of the rack. He nearly doubled over, the sour metallic taste of fear ripe and heavy in his mouth.

I can't go back there. I won't… 

"Your grip is too tight," Alastair purred into his right ear. Dean startled. He couldn't tell if Alastair was pissed off or not, and that scared the crap out of him even more. "Loosen up, pet. Get some flexibility in those fingers."

Dean nodded as he blinked away the wetness and the grittiness in his eyes. His hands moved with a life of their own, picking out tools from the table (scalpel, icepick, hacksaw). The air around him was wet with blood, sharp with screams.

The soul on the rack was a skinny little old man with thinning grey hair and a receding hairline. He stared up at Dean, pleaded with his eyes, (pleasenonononopleasedon'tdothis) and Dean didn't want to, he didn't want to do any of this, but he was scared and tired of hurting, tired of being hurt. He'd held out for so long (for too fucking long, a part of his mind murmured darkly) and he just couldn't take it anymore.

The knife felt heavy and awkward in Dean's hands as he made the first cut right down to the bone. He split the flesh in two, sliced down the collarbone all the way down to the navel. His hands slipped and slid against bone.

Dean peeled both sides of the face back slowly at first, then faster, and his fingers slipped because of the blood (I'm standing here with my fingers stuck inside this dude's eye socket was his only thought) and the left eyeball squirted out onto the soul's cheek like a too-ripe grape.

His movements were a little more frantic that he would have liked them to be, not smooth at all.

Alastair stood there watching with hooded black eyes.

All Dean could think of was 'm sorry. 'm sorry. I can't hurt like that anymore, I can't. I won't.

A voice he didn't recognize whispered words inside his head.

Dolemas sehujes heremc mas limtas. 

Dean blinked.

That jittery feeling in his gut melted away. He knew who he was now, and he was fine with that.

It was time to go to work.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean rose up out of the chair. He cocked his head to one side, swept his gaze over Sam's entire body, then glanced at the tools on the cart.

No. Oh God, no, Sam thought, even though he was positive God had nothing to do with this.

Dean's eyes were a swirl of pitch black and light, bright green. He stalked around the table and the rack like a panther. He was the most beautiful human Sam had ever seen, and the most terrible. The lines of maroon paint on his taut, well-muscled body made him look elegant and feral. He didn't give the mirrors a second glance. He knew he was on, knew he had an audience, and not just Sam, either.

The mirror on the longest wall darkened to a blood red tint. Dark shapes lurked just under the surface. Watching. Waiting.

Rosalie wiggled her fingers at Sam as she backed away from the rack. "Bye, Sammy."

The two demons walked into the mirror. Rosalie turned and smiled at Sam as she followed them.

Dean didn't notice. Instead he ran his fingertips over the tools on the wooden cart, his full lips turned up in a slight smirk. He leaned over, pulled the gag up and over Sam's head, tossed it on the cart.

"It's okay. You can talk while I work," Dean said briskly. "Talk, scream, whatever floats your boat. Cuss me out if you wanna. Not gonna be the first time or the last. So what's your story, dude? You kill somebody, screw somebody's pooch, what?"

"Dean," Sam sputtered. The thick, foul taste of the gag clung to his tongue and lips. "It's…it's me."

"Me, who?" Dean picked up a long serrated knife, ran his thumb over the blade and grinned a little as a thin line of blood marked his skin.

"It's Sam."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. There was absolutely no hint of recognition in those multi-colored eyes. "A word of advice? Never piss off someone with a cart full of knives and sharp pointy things, wavy gravy."

"Dean, it's me, it's Sam. I'm your brother."

"Yeah, right. My brother's topside. I made the deal for him." Dean picked up a curved blade and stared at the razor sharp tip end with a critical eye. "That your story too? Crossroads deal? Helluva thing, isn't it?"

"Dean, please, no, it's me, it's Sam - "

"I had a set of scalpels here." Dean looked at the cart and frowned. He bent down, looked at the lower shelf. "This is my cart. Don't like sharing with anybody else." His face brightened as he found what he was looking for. "Hey, there they are!"

Dean smirked as he picked up a wallet made of pale human skin. He opened it and stared at his tools. "Sharpened them myself. That was something my Dad taught me, y'know? You take care of your tools and they'll take care of you."

"Dean, please, don't…it's me…it's Sam -"

Dean pulled one of the scalpels out, examined the edge of the blade in the overhead light. "Hope you don't mind, but I gotta mark my territory."

"Wh-what?"

"Well, yeah. Just my initials, though. That's the least of your worries compared to what I'm gonna do to you after that."

"Dean, no -" Sam's eyes widened as Dean pulled a smaller leather strap from the second shelf of the cart and threaded it through the upper slots of the rack.

Sam bucked upwards. He raised his head up but Dean pushed him back down without much effort and pulled the strap tight across his forehead.

"Okay now." A flash of silver in Dean's hand, and the buttons on Sam's shirt went flying off. A flick of Dean's wrist, and the knife in his hand was a silvery blur in the air. The rest of the plaid shirt was cut away.

Dean stared at his brother's bare chest with a practiced eye. Sam's eyes widened as he realized that he was deciding where to make the first cuts.

"Dean, no, please, no, it's me, it's Sam. You gotta believe me, you gotta fight this. It's me, it's Sam…no, no-"

Dean reached out, poked his fingertips into Sam's chest, just below the junction of neck and shoulder, right next to Sam's collarbone. Sam pushed backwards, desperately trying to get away from Dean's touch. The cords in Sam's neck bulged, rigid and almost distended. His hands hooked into claws.

"Dean, please, no - "

"I keep my blades sharp, dude." Dean gave Sam a pat on the shoulder, lightly. There wasn't any anger behind it. "You'll barely feel a thing." Dean chuckled. "Better enjoy that while you can."

Dean leaned forward with the scalpel in his hand. The tip of the scalpel slid underneath Sam's skin, moved in steady, sweeping strokes.

Dean hummed "Some Kind of Monster" while he worked.

Sam screamed.

 

Part 2

Dude passed out right after Dean finished carving the first letter.

Better you than me, Dean thought as he stared at that face. I'm not getting back on that rack. No damn way, no damn how.

This guy was a big one, nearly as tall as Sammy. He had a bigger canvas this time, so Dean made the initials a little larger this time, about three inches tall, three inches wide.

DW.

Nice.

Dean didn't know how long he'd have to work on this one. Alastair hadn't said anything, and usually he would have indicated special handling.

The other symbol, the one he carved into the kid's right shoulder, well, that was done on a whim. Alastair really didn't care about stuff like that. As long as the job was done and the souls were tortured, Dean pretty much had free rein. Besides, the Cross of Confusion was pretty cool. Blue Oyster Cult. Dean was especially proud of how straight he'd cut the lines of the cross, and that curved part was damn near perfect.

Dean looked down at the bloody scalpel and smirked slyly. Well, it was time to continue on. Slicing off one of sleeping beauty's ears ought to wake him right the hell up.

"Dean?"

He turned towards the voice behind him.

It wasn't Alastair. It was some bitch. A young one, with long auburn hair. She looked fresh and thoroughly fuckable. Dean felt heat pool in his belly; he was already half hard. He didn't remember seeing her around before, but that didn't mean anything. The fact that she was running around loose and not on a rack meant something, and it really bothered him that he didn't know exactly what.

The words she spoke froze Dean where he stood: "Emglan nostus daemon eturtmnim orous."

Dean blinked. A low dull ache flared behind his eyes.

"That's enough." She smiled as she took the scalpel from his hand. "We're really impressed with how well you did." Her eyes were bright with wonder. "I didn't think you were actually going to cut Sam, sweetness."

"Sam?" Dean whispered. He stared at the man on the rack.

No, please…

Oh, God…it…it was…

"No…Sam-"

"Now now." Rosalie patted Dean's arm. The two black eyed demons came out of the mirror and flanked Dean, one on either side. They held his arms, but he couldn't take his eyes off Sam.

He'd done that…done that to his own brother. The blood, the carvings…

The other two possessed ones walked around the rack undoing the straps that held Sam down.

Dean groaned as her fingers found the stab wound in his side. Her fingertips pushed their way in, past the lips of the wound, and dug into his flesh deeply. The pain was sudden and sharp.

Rosalie smiled as she worked her fingers into him.

"That's the whole point of this little exercise," Rosalie whispered. She pulled her fingers out and licked slowly at the blood that coated her fingertips.

Spots of blackness darker than night bloomed around the edge of Dean's vision, swallowed him up whole. Her voice slithered through the darkness that rose up and threatened to drag him down. "I want you to remember what you did to Sam, Dean. I want you to remember the beast you have inside you." She pushed something sharp and silver into his hand. "If you decide you can't live with what you did, you can always come home."

Dean's knees buckled, but he never felt it when he hit the floor.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Rosalie's chuckle was light and cheerful. Her breath scorched Sam's right ear, hot and sulfurous. "Wake up, Sammy boy. Wake up."

He didn't want to. Didn't want to see, because his body was already telling him that the damage had been done.

Dean…Dean did this to me. 

"Here. Call whoever you like." Sam recognized the shape and the weight of the small object she pushed into the left front pocket of his jeans. "I imagine you won't be able to get away from Dean fast enough.

Dean's ashamed of what he did down in Hell. Both of you need a little reminder, that's all. You'll remember, Sam. You will. 

The pain in his chest and shoulder burned bright and white hot. Sam opened his eyes, and the pain doubled as he sat up on the rack. His vision blurred as he stared down at his chest.

DW

Dean marked me, Sam thought dully. He cut me.

The things in the blood red mirror wall stared at him, and Sam's head bobbled a little as he stared back at them. Some were impossibly tall and thin, others were broad and squat. Long slender things whipped and snapped in the air behind them. Sam couldn't see any real details, just outlines of their shapes, and he was grateful for that. What little he could see hurt his eyes.

They were impatient; Sam could tell.

The show wasn't over yet.

He slid off the rack sideways. The pain from the cuts travelled down his spine, all the way down to the soles of his feet. Sam sank down on his knees.

There was blood on the floor, and all of it came from Dean.

He sat up against the opposite site of the rack. Dean had something in his hand, something silver and bloody. It was in his right hand, and Sam stared stupidly as Dean's hand moved in and out.

Dean moaned, a soft, desperate sound, and at first Sam couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Stabbing himself…he's stabbing…

Sam raised himself up. His feet slipped and slid on the blood as he rounded the corner of the rack.

"Dean? Dean!"

Some of the things in the mirror drew back.

"No. No! Stop that, stop it -"

Sam reached out and missed as Dean's right hand moved again. The knife slid into Dean's skin again. Dean groaned, but he would not stop.

Sam grabbed Dean's hand the second time and managed to pull the knife back, but even in his present condition Dean was stronger than he looked. He tightened his grip on the blood slicked knife.

"Sam…get…get away…from me…" Dean whispered hoarsely. His knife hand jerked inwards again. Sam jerked it back and finally wrenched it free from Dean's hand. Sam threw the knife into the far corner.

"No. No, I'm not leaving you."

God, there was so much blood.

"Bad," Dean breathed. "Don't want you seeing me like this…"

"It's okay. Dude, it's okay! Doesn't matter…." Sam spotted the pieces of his shirt on the floor. He balled up the remnants of his shirt and pressed it to Dean's side. Dean flinched.

"Does…matter," Dean slurred. "Didn't…didn't you see…what I did… to you…"

Dean stirred feebly. His eyes flickered open, the whites of his eyes rolling wildly

"Dude, it's okay. It's all right."

"…not okay…not all right, y'hear me? Not…it's not…"

"Dean…"

"That's….that's what…I am….it's what I did…you really think…I woulda stopped myself? Is that what you think?" Dean shook his head, wide-eyed. "Don't you get it? This is me, Sam…this is…me…." Dean whispered dully.

"Hold on, you hear me? You're not dying on me, Dean, so you hold on."

Dean shuddered. He was so damn pale. "Don't wanna hurt anybody else…I don't "…if I kill myself I go back…" Dean laughed crazily. The sound raised the hair at the back of Sam's neck. "Can't…can't win for losin', huh?"

"Fireman's carry, dude." Sam snapped. "Right now. We're going."

Putting on a show for these hellbound sonsabitches was not an option.

Sam stood up with Dean slung over his shoulders. Christ. He nearly stumbled underneath Dean's extra weight.

"Fuck you, Sam grated out. "Fuck all of you. We're not putting on a show for you. I'm not rejecting my brother, you hear me? I'm not."

The things in the mirror drew back.

First one step and then another. "Bitches better not be here when I get back!" Sam yelled. He carried Dean out, and he didn't look back, but he was struck by one thing. There were demons in the mirror, but their reaction was very human.

Sam recognized the emotion. It was surprise.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Six months later 

The rent needed to be paid for this month, and he could keep out just enough to make it for the next two weeks. The rest goes in the kitty. Three more months ought to do it, Dean thought. He put the key in the lock and stepped inside his darkened apartment.

Dean turned on the lights and froze dead in his tracks.

Sam sat at the table near the window, right next to Dean's duffel on the floor. Sam had Dean's Colt 1911 in his hand, and as Dean watched Sam very slowly popped the clip and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Hey," Sam said softly. He opened his jacket, put the gun in his side waistband. Dean caught a glimpse of the W he'd carved in Sam's skin and very pointedly looked away.

Bobby Singer sat on Dean's bed. " 'bout damn time you showed up, princess."

Dean was speechless for once.

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Don't look so shocked. Next time you run away, try not to hide at a garage." He quirked an eyebrow. "Garrett's Garage? Doesn't matter if it's in another state. I got people who deal with my salvage yard nationwide."

All Dean could do was stare at him. It was damned awkward. Bobby finally broke the moment by standing up.

"I'll leave you two alone so you can catch up," Bobby drawled drily. The stare he gave Dean was direct and unwavering. "And if you ever pull a disappearing act like that again, I'll kick your ass from here to Tacoma, Washington. You don't ditch family like that, you hear me, boy?"

"Yes sir," Dean muttered.

"Good," Bobby nodded at Sam. "I'll be outside if you need me."

Sam nodded back. The silence deepened as Bobby closed the door behind him.

Dean opened his arms wide. "You wanna take a swing at me? Kick my ass? Okay. Have at it."

"Maybe later," Sam drawled.

"Okay then." Dean went over to the closet, pulled the door open and fished an envelope out of that show box on the top shelf. He tossed it in Sam's direction; Sam caught it with one hand.

Sam frowned. "What is this?"

"Sixty five hundred dollars." Dean sat down on the corner of the bed. "Been working double shifts at the garage. I should have another twenty five hundred in another month or so, more after that."

"Dean, what the hell is this for?"

"Your surgery."

"My what?"

"Come on, Sam." Dean rolled his eyes. "Did IQs drop while I was gone? That's for your plastic surgery. I knew you were still staying with Bobby. I called Ellen. She told me you were. She threatened to kick my ass if I didn't come see you, but I couldn't." Dean nodded at the envelope. "That's for you."

Sam looked at the envelope and shook his head. He put it down on the table and pushed it away from him. Dean's face fell, then just as quickly, he slipped his mask back on again.

"I need a damn drink," Dean finally huffed. He went over to the fridge and pulled out two beers. He was careful not to look at Sam below his chin as he handed the bottle off to his brother. Sam caught the look.

"So," Sam said slowly. "What have you been up to?"

Dean shrugged. "Working. Pulling double shifts sometimes. Got another job on the side as a driver at a limo service." Dean lifted the bottle to his lips and drank half. "Tips are pretty damn good."

"And after you sent me the money you were gonna kill yourself, weren't you?"

"Yep." There it was no. No regret, no hesitation.

Sam inhaled noisily. "Why?"

"Why?" Dean barked laughter, short and humorless. "What, did you miss the memo or somethin', Sam? You saw what I was like. What I did."

"Dean, we gotta talk about this. You've been gone for five months."

"And you should have let me stay gone."

Sam shook his head. "Not an option."

Dean smiled bitterly. "Okay. Is this the part where you tell me that life is a gift and I should hold onto each precious moment?" Another bitter chuckle. "Well, believe me, pal, some of those moments weren't so damn precious."

Dean put the bottle to his lips and took a swallow. His hands shook so badly he leaned forward and gripped it tight with both hands.

"So what do you expect me to do now?" Sam said quietly.

"Do? I expect you to get up and leave with Bobby. And not to look back."

"If I do leave, you're coming with me."

"Hell I am."

"You still don't get it, Sam." Dean stared at the floor. "I bawled like a bitch the first day, and it wasn't because I was sad I was hurting people. Dean lifted his head up, and the mask slipped. The expression on his face was open, vulnerable. "I…I cried…because I was afraid. I was afraid I'd fuck up. I was afraid it was a trick and Alastair would put me right back on the rack."

"I enjoyed it." Dean wiped at the corners of his eyes. "I enjoyed every single friggin' moment of it. And you know what? If Rosalie hadn't stopped me, if she hadn't…I would have started in on you again. I was gonna rip into you until there was nothing left."

"You didn't."

"You should hate me for what I did. You should be running away from me."

"That's exactly what Rosalie said."

"You stupid, stubborn sonofabitch!" Dean exploded. "Haven't you been listening to a fucking word I've said?"

"Yeah," Sam said slowly. "I have. You ditched me and Bobby before I could tell you what else she said to me." Sam pulled his shirt and jacket collar away from his neck so that Dean could get a good look at his initials.

DW

Dean stared at the marks. "You should hate me for that," he whispered.

"I don't," Sam said softly. "I never could."

"You're just saying that. There's no forgiving something like that, Sam. There's no -"

"I killed a woman, Dean."

"What?"

"Just before…just before I broke the final seal. She was an Obstetrics nurse. She was human, but she'd been possessed by one of Lillith's demons." Sam leaned forward, clasped his hands together. "Ruby said I needed a boost. Told me I couldn't kill Lillith without draining this woman's blood. I tried to fool myself into thinking that Ruby was responsible for that, but…I would have…I would have killed that nurse anyway. I needed to kill her. I wanted the rush her blood would give me."

Sam looked horribly young and vulnerable. "Could you hate me for that?"

"No." It was the truth. The absolute truth.

"Rosalie told me that her sponsors were never going to let you hurt me too badly. They just wanted to give me a few new scars. She said each and every time I looked at these scars, I'd remember what you did and I'd want to get away from you."

Dean inhaled deeply. His chest hitched painfully as he finally straightened up and looked Sam in the eyes.

"I learned a lesson all right. Just not the one she wanted me to learn," Sam said quietly. "Every time I look at these scars they remind me of what you went through down in hell. You did that. You died for me. And now that you're back, I don't want to lose you again. That's why I'm not getting them fixed. You keep your money. I ditched you for a demon, and I did that of my own free will. After all I've done, I should be asking for your forgiveness. You shouldn't want to be around me after this."

For a moment Sam's face twisted, out of control with grief, before he settled himself. Tears ran down both cheeks. "All I want…I want my big brother back."

Sam stood up and walked over to the door. "That's all. That's all I ever wanted. "

He closed the door gently behind him.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bobby grunted softly as Sam slid into the passenger side of the Chevelle.

"Well?" Bobby rumbled.

"Dean doesn't believe me. He thinks I hate him." Sam looked tired and worn around the eyes. Kid's aged right before my eyes, Bobby thought.

The older hunter shrugged. "There's always Plan B. We can go in and hogtie him, drag him back kicking and screaming."

"No. I can't do that."

"It's always an option, kid," Bobby said mildly.

"I screwed up, Bobby. I did." Sam leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands over his face. "He doesn't believe me. He never will."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, kid," Bobby drawled.

Sam startled as the passenger side opened. He was suddenly pressed forward into the dashboard as Dean pushed his way in.

"Sorry. Coming through. Sorry," Dean muttered. He tossed his duffel onto the bench and sat idly tapping his right knee with his fingers.

Bobby turned on the ignition, and the Chevelle rumbled into life. "Idjit."

-30-


End file.
